


In Victory

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, though – this is what Aramis loves best.  The thought comes to him, unbidden, after the fight.  It's Porthos, bloody and muddy and sweating from the fight – grinning around his adrenaline, around his victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Victory

**Author's Note:**

> So it occurs to me that I haven't written a portamis pwp since February. Shame on me! Anyway, based off a prompt from JL that involves Aramis climbing Porthos like a tree whenever he sees Porthos in his new season 3 outfit. I made it a little more general just so that it can fit a bit more into whatever timeline you'd prefer. It's very vaguely taking place between seasons 2 and 3, even though likely it'll become a semi-AU (lol because obviously them having sex in a forest is absolutely on point for the narrative, shhh shhhhhhhh) but yes. 
> 
> I really like Porthos' new hair, though. Good job, Howard.

This, though – this is what Aramis loves best. The thought comes to him, unbidden, after the fight. It’s an easy, simple matter – hardly a battle at all, hardly a brawl. They dispatch the enemies easily, hardly a fight for seasoned veterans such as themselves. Aramis was born to fight – he knows that beyond doubt. He loves the danger, the battle, the fighting, the sweat and the blood and the dirt and the grit. 

Perhaps for himself, he prefers a certain taste of refinement – the laced collars, the perfumes, the wisp of hair falling in his eyes as he presses kiss upon kiss to silk and brocade. He loves that for himself, will always delight in a means to make himself beautiful. But that isn’t what Aramis loves most. 

No, what he loves is this: it’s Porthos, bloody and muddy and sweating from the fight – grinning around his adrenaline, around his victory. His hair dirty from days away from proper bathing, his grin wide and unrestrained, his face dirty and bloody and stretched thin around his happiness. It is Porthos after the heat of battle, armored and defended, large and _alive._ That is what he’ll love, every second and every time. 

“God,” Porthos says, laughing, wiping at his jaw to check that his scratches have stopped bleeding for now – nothing serious, never anything serious because his love is fierce and blazing in his battle. “I need a bath.”

Aramis is hardly listening. He hardly ever does, in these moments. He nods, absently, moves up to Porthos and touches his chest – slides his fingers down along the refined scaling of his leather coat. “Yes, yes, of course,” he dismisses, voice wisping out around his desire, “But wait a moment?” 

It is a natural, common thing between them, the way Aramis’ eyes go dark after a battle. It’s not unexpected – so Porthos’ smile turns indulgent and he tilts his head, enough so that Aramis can nuzzle to his jaw, breathe out against the curve of his ear. There are few things that Aramis can love more than battles, but Porthos after the fact is an easy victory – Porthos, muddy and sweating and bloody, everything that Aramis would hate on any other occasion but this. 

This is what he’ll remember, after a battle, murmuring to d’Artagnan and Athos about needing to go find some water, or to patrol a little, or hunt for food – this is what he’ll remember, when he doesn’t even have to question Porthos following him, doesn’t have to question when he’s grabbed by the back of his neck and shoved up against a tree. In fact, he’ll delight in it instead – gasp out happily, mouth opening and head tilting back as he nuzzles to Porthos’ chin. He doesn’t bother putting up a fight. There’ll never be a reason to fight against Porthos. 

This is what he thinks, as Porthos pushes him back, presses to him and he can hardly breathe around his delight. He lets out that soft, pathetic little whimper he does – knows that Porthos will understand it instantly, and soon there’s the weight of Porthos’ fingers in his mouth, sliding against teeth and tongue and Aramis’ whimpers become more delighted, rocking his hips back expectantly. 

Porthos laugh is soft and dark with his desire and he whispers to his ear, “Eager.” 

“Always,” Aramis answers, can’t even pretend to be coy, not when he can feel metal and leather and far, far too many layers separating him and Porthos. He can never question it. 

Not when he can feel Porthos’ grin against his neck, the bite of his teeth against him, the smell of battle and victory. It’ll only ever make Aramis gasp out, moan out, rock back against Porthos with the surety of conquest.   
The hand on his neck slides, touches at his hair, tugs him back, then slides back down to trace along his spine. Aramis leans back into Porthos’ hand, the other curling at his hip, already working at the belt there. 

In these moments, he can never forget how strong Porthos is, how powerful Porthos is – can feel it in the way that Porthos first presses Aramis up hard against the tree for balance, turns him around so that they slide up against each other instead, Porthos disarming and undressing him one handed, the other hand pressed into his hair to tug him in close and kissing him – sloppy and messy and _perfect_ because that’s Porthos, that’s always been Porthos. 

His coat falls away with his belt, his weapons, Porthos’ sure hand working away the braces and sliding his shirt, oversized – Porthos’, stolen away in dim morning light – slides down off his shoulders. They have to break the kiss in order to get it off over Aramis’ head and that already seems too long a separation because he drags Porthos back in immediately as soon as the shirt is gone. 

Porthos’ hands are warm and possessive pressing over Aramis and Aramis just whimpers out, delighting when he gets fingers pressing into his mouth as reward, fingertips working past their smiling mouths. Porthos draws back, grins at him, and Aramis smiles around his fingers, drags his tongue down over bloody knuckles. He suckles on Porthos’ hand, closes his eyes and bucks his hips up as Porthos pets callous-roughed fingers down his stomach and his cock, dragging his breeches down until he is naked enough. Porthos shoves down his clothes enough that they settle at his knees and Aramis steps out of one leg before he’s distracted. Aramis can feel the drag of bark against his back and he arches his hips forward, tries to rock into Porthos’ hand. 

Aramis grabs Porthos’ coat, shoves it down off his shoulder and then grabs onto his hair, pulls him in, kisses him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, his body jerking automatically with the ghosting touch of Porthos’ palm against his cock, twitching in his hand. He can smell the hint of sex and grit in the air, taste the tang of blood when he mouths his lips over Porthos’ jaw and cheek, licking at his scars and gasping out his name. Porthos laughs at first, but it stutters out into a pleased little moan, already breathless even just from this. That’s just how Aramis is, that’s just how it’s been – able to break Porthos down, shake him apart like this. There’s the thrill of victory, of battle, and this is what Aramis loves most about Porthos—

Porthos bites at his neck and the noise that Aramis makes is broken and raw and then he just moans, wrapping a leg around Porthos’ hips and dragging him in close. There’s the pull and clash of leather against skin and Aramis gasps and shudders, drops his hands down to strip Porthos down enough to feel the hot slide of his cock against his. He palms at Porthos’ cock, strokes it steadily, swallows down Porthos’ sounds against open mouth and biting teeth. 

“Fuck,” Porthos gasps out, and then he laughs and nuzzles against Aramis’ neck, drags his beard against his skin and Aramis shudders. “Guess I’m fucking you like this.” 

“That was the idea,” Aramis agrees, laughing, groans as he rocks his hips forward and lets his cock drag against his. 

Porthos grabs his hips and hauls him up, cupping his ass to keep him up and pressed against the tree and there’s a moment when Aramis truly thinks he might come just from how easily Porthos manhandles him – always has – but the navigation of clothes still half draped over arms and legs is enough for Aramis to just laugh and tighten one leg around Porthos’ hip and grab tight to his shoulders, leaning in and kissing him more as Porthos attempts to wrench Aramis’ breeches and smallclothes enough to let him wrap both legs around him. 

“Look at you,” Aramis gushes out as he bites and kisses at Porthos’ lip, suckles on it and tugs with his teeth to get Porthos to groan. He pulls on his hair, kisses him fiercely, whispering into his mouth, “You’re amazing, you know that? How many of those men did you kill?” 

“Lost count after five,” Porthos says, grinning between kisses so that Aramis licks at his teeth for a moment before he regains control and goes back to kissing him deeply, deep enough that it’s difficult to breathe. 

Aramis laughs, kicks out his leg to get his breeches off the end of his foot and nearly falls from Porthos’ arms for his trouble, but Porthos holds him tight, shoves him hard up against the tree and really the drag of the bark against his back should be painful but all it does is make Aramis shudder and gasp out, rock forward to try to get the friction against their cocks. 

“God, Porthos,” he whispers, “Please – just…”

Porthos nods, pupils blown wide as he stares at Aramis a moment, then ducks his head to shift his hold on Aramis, holding him up easily with one arm – so strong, God, always so strong – and wraps his hand around their cocks and starts stroking and it’s a lot, almost too much, Aramis full naked and Porthos half-dressed, the seams and laces of his uniform dragging over his skin where they touch. But it’s good. It’s so good. 

“You’re good, you’re so good, love,” Aramis coos out, babbles around kisses and tugs at Porthos’ hair as an afterthought, drags his thumbs down along his jaw and feels the days of dirt and grime and it should be disgusting but with Porthos it never is, with Porthos it’s always just what it is. He could take so many things, dragged across the forest floor, pliant and ready for Porthos’ instructions, could shoulder the sharp bits of sticks, the jab of rocks, knuckles scraped with bark and dirt – he’d take it all if he could also take Porthos. 

Porthos, for his part, is always so good to him, always so good – even high off battle, he’s always so gentle, always on that edge between pleasure and pain with Aramis, never shoves him down too hard, never pushes too fast – he’s always, always how he has to be and he can’t stop shaking, can’t stop moaning. Porthos’ answering sounds swallow down into his throat, drag against his shoulder, rock against him as his fist twists and strokes down over their cocks. Such a simple thing, and yet Aramis can hardly breathe, distracted and writhing in Porthos’ sure hold, knows without a doubt that Porthos will never drop him. He flushes hot, shivers, shudders, gasps out Porthos’ name. 

“They might hear,” Porthos warns, but it comes out stuttered and half-formed, already so far gone, already rocking harder and harder against him, not even remembering to tease him – and Porthos, his love, he is so terrible at teasing even when he’s not distracted like this. Aramis makes a whimpering, pleading sound, shuddering at the thought and Porthos laughs and kisses him deep. 

They are a moaning, forceful mess but Aramis can’t help but smile. Yes, this, this is what he loves, this is what he’ll remember most. He bits at Porthos’ lip.

“Have I told you yet that you’re – ah,” Aramis gasps out, throws his head back as Porthos drags his thumb along his cockhead, twisting a little. “That you’re perfect?”

“Could always stand to hear it more,” Porthos says with a laugh, voice so warm and so affectionate and somehow that is enough to push Aramis out of his mind, half gone already, and he writhes, relentless, against Porthos. Porthos gasps out, moans, and then he’s laughing – honeyed and warm and pressed against his skin. 

Their movements turn merciless and Aramis gasps and groans, laughs a little as he says, “You killed far more than five.”

“Hell yeah,” Porthos agrees, laughs, and rolls his hips so that his cock drags against Aramis’ in the way that Aramis _loves_ and Aramis keens out, tilts his head back and savors it all with a low groan. Their movements become unpitying, dragging against one another and all Aramis can really do is hold tight to Porthos and let him control him. But that’s enough, that’ll always be enough.

He goes utterly boneless as he gets close, just moving forward to lean heavily against Porthos, hips rolling to meet Porthos’ thrusting hand, and he gasps and groans out against Porthos’ shoulders, bites down on his shirt to get to the meat of his shoulder beneath, muttering grateful praises, hands braced against Porthos’ back and then dragging up to hold tight into his hair. 

“Next time I’ll fuck you properly,” Porthos whispers to his ear. “Lay you down on the ground and just fuck you open.”

“Fuck!” Aramis agrees, whole-heartedly. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, and then with one final thrust into his hand, Porthos comes – shuddering hard and gasping out Aramis’ name. Aramis groans, trembles, and keeps rocking insistently against him until he can follow him, coming with a short gasp, inhaling sharply and then nuzzling hard against Porthos’ neck. Porthos holds him tight and together they rock against each other, the come dirty between them. 

He’s gasping, groaning, and he slings an arm around Porthos’ neck and drags him in to kiss him, sloppy and unrestrained, as they ride out their orgasms. It’s a deep kiss, needy, but as Aramis drags out the kisses, tries to catch his breath, the kiss turns softer, clinging as he brushes his mouth to his, leaning heavily against him. 

“Think you can stand?” Porthos asks around kisses and Aramis laughs and shakes his head. So instead, Porthos adjusts, holding him up with both arms now, pressing him back up against the tree. Aramis whimpers out happily and kisses him more, lets his hands stray over him. Porthos melts against him. 

Aramis loves that – loves that taste of grit and dirt as he drags his mouth over Porthos’ and kisses him, slow and luxurious at first, fingers folding into his hair and dragging him down close, heating up against him, moaning out weakly when Porthos’ hands, strong and sure, hold him up with no effort. 

He loves him prim and proper, always will, will always delight in the chance to bathe Porthos, dress him in the laced shirts he favors, help him draw in widows and patronesses for funding, to make him glow – watch Porthos laugh as Aramis puzzles between two different shirts that, to Porthos, seem too much alike to matter. 

But this is what he’ll _always_ love the most – this is what he’ll remember, every time: Porthos, laughing and bright, the taste of copper on his tongue and the glow of victory in his eyes. Porthos, who made it out of the fight safe and sound. That is what Aramis will always want – every time.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!


End file.
